When Darkness Falls
by Random1
Summary: A change to events on the banks of the Anduin send the fellowship and Boromir off on a different adventure. But how far must a man go to redeem himself? And when hope is lost, what remains? Warning: AU, violence, character death
1. Prologue

Title: When Darkness Falls

Author: Random1 (also known as Adi)

Rating: PG-13 for violence and character death

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Tolkien, and I thank him from the bottom of my heart for gifting us these characters and this universe.

Notes: Character death. This is very much a WIP and I will be fairly slow to update, but I am working on it. Feedback and constructive criticism welcome.

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**Prologue**

Somewhere far away, the Falls of Rauros sang out their song. The canopy overhead was green and lush, and almost silent. The natural world whispered to itself in its own private language of insect hum and birdsong and wind through leaves. There was an impression of tranquillity, of... rightness in the world.

But the impression was a false one.

They stood facing each other, the man and the hobbit, with more than just cold stone between them. In the near silence, the whisper they could hear came not from nature, and its voice was ugly and commanding, brutal and harsh. Boromir's face twisted with something akin to madness, and Frodo was afraid.

'Why not be free of it?' Boromir said, softly, ever so softly. 'You can lay the blame on me, if you will. You can say I was too strong and took it by _force_.'

It was almost a snarl. It was surely a threat. It was an offer perhaps too good to refuse. Frodo longed to be rid of it, this they both knew, and yet he could not bear to be parted from it. Force he feared and welcomed both. In some ways it would be a relief to have the thing taken out of his hands in a way that was beyond his control.

But madness shone in Boromir's eyes. Slowly, with great difficulty, Frodo shook his head. They stood there, eye to eye, with more than just cold stone between them, and let the strange whispers wash over them in the silence.

Suddenly, Boromir sprang over the stone, and leapt at Frodo, knocking the hobbit to the ground and pinning him beneath the full weight of his body. Frodo struggled fiercely, involuntarily, moved by sheer terror... but Boromir was stronger by far. The hobbit was afraid. Boromir saw his fear, and it fed his anger. All he wished for was to see the White Tower stand tall, free at last from evil and war. All he wished for was that no more sons of Gondor should die in her defence.

And yet they feared him. Fear blazed in Frodo's eyes, and anger, and betrayal, and beneath all that, something that twisted Boromir's tortured heart until he though that it might snap with rage or sorrow, he knew not which.

Pity. Pity shone in Frodo's eyes.

He knew what it was that choked at Boromir's throat, he better than any other. He knew what it was that had driven him to this desperate act of violence.

And he knew that Boromir could not lose this contest of strength. He knew that there was only one way for him to escape now.

And he stopped struggling, went limp in Boromir's arms, and then at last, desperately, reached out for the Ring, gave in to the call of its power.

But Boromir had seen it coming. Boromir knew what he would have done, had their positions been reversed. Any weapon to defeat a stronger enemy... Any weapon, even that one. _Especially_ that one. Boromir would have given in to its call long ago. This he knew, even before he saw Frodo's hands reach out. And Frodo knew it too.

The sudden flash of gold stopped both their hearts. They were so close together that they both could hear it as they caught their breath together with the intensity of it, and then broke into the same ragged, painful gasps. They both could feel their hearts beating together, racing to the same uneven pulse, separated only by cloth and skin. And they both could feel it as the same longing rose in both their breasts: a sickness, a pleasure, an unendurable pain.

But Frodo had the means to end that longing. The Ring shone bright against the pale skin of his shaking hand. He clasped his hand around it, pulling it from its chain, his eyes closing with relief, with guilt, with guilty pleasure at the thrill of its touch.

And in that moment, Frodo's guard was down. And in that moment, such madness rose within Boromir as he had no hope of controlling. And in that moment, his hands were around Frodo's neck...

Three minutes, it would have taken him to kill a grown man. Three minutes, give or take; time, perhaps, to break free of the madness that had overcome him, to realise his error.

Time to stop himself from becoming a murderer.

Three minutes, it would have taken him to kill a man.

But Frodo was no man. And the madness leant Boromir strength, even as it robbed him of mercy.

And the hobbit fell limp against him. And this time, it was no feint.

And in his madness, Boromir laughed as he took the Ring and claimed it for Gondor. And he put it upon his finger, and welcomed it with his whole heart, and it took him for its own, and his world swirled away into darkness.


	2. The Breaking of the Fellowship

**The Breaking of the Fellowship**

'I like not this waiting,' Legolas said. 'If my ears do not deceive me, there are fell things in these woods, and they draw ever closer. I do not believe that Frodo is safe alone any longer.'

'He has had his hour and more!' Sam cried. 'I say it is time to go after him, Strider. I'm afraid he may be trying to journey on without us. In the time he's been gone, he could have gotten half way to Mordor and back!'

'Not without going past us to the boats, Sam,' Aragorn said softly. 'That is the only route eastward from here.' He sighed, tearing his gaze away from the falls of Rauros and the path to Gondor. 'Nonetheless, Frodo's hour is long passed, and I think it is time we sought him out.'

'And the sooner the better!' Sam said darkly. 'Boromir has not yet returned either.'

'Ay, but Boromir is a warrior both fierce and stout of heart,' Gimli put in. 'Orcs there may be in these woods, but he has naught to fear from them.'

Legolas' brow creased.

'I think it is not Boromir's safety that Master Samwise is concerned with,' he said simply.

Aragorn looked up sharply.

'Boromir is a man of honour,' he said fiercely. 'He may disagree with Frodo's course, but that does not mean that Frodo need fear him.'

Legolas said nothing, but Sam's eyes narrowed.

'Oh, enough of all this talking!' he cried suddenly. 'We know what needs doing, and the longer we leave it, the greater the danger to Frodo!' And without waiting for any further response, he tore off into the trees, calling Frodo's name.

'Wait a moment!' Aragorn called, but it was too late. Sam had disappeared; Merry and Pippin were running one way, Legolas and Gimli another. It was as though a sudden madness had fallen on the company.

'We shall be scattered and lost,' groaned Aragorn, but none heard him. He was desperately worried for the safety of the young hobbits Merry and Pippin, but instinct told him that Sam would have picked the right path to find Frodo, and with no further time to think, he sprang swiftly in pursuit of Sam.

A great fiery Eye ripped and pierced through Boromir's mind, but he had the strength of the One Ring, and nothing could hurt him now. Anger and hatred coursed through him and he directed their full force at the fiery enemy, but all his efforts seemed only to make the fire burn more fierce. It felt like fighting a physical battle in the darkness of his mind.

He wanted to fight, to kill, to hurt and maim. It was the only way to protect his people. In his mind's eye the White Tower ran red with blood, but it stood still, stood tall and proud and true, and that was the only thing that mattered.

And he was King, King of the White Tower, King of all Gondor, King rightly crowned and truly loved, but most importantly a strong King, a Warrior King. His people were soldiers undefeated, and they rode throughout Middle Earth waging war on all who opposed them, because it was the only way to keep the White Tower standing safe.

At the back of his mind, a tiny voice was screaming; screaming that this was madness, screaming that he was a murderer and a traitor, that he deserved to die, and that the White Tower bought with the death of innocents and red with bloodshed of its own devising was no different to the White Tower fallen.

But he couldn't listen to that voice. It was taking all his concentration to fight against the fire that was consuming him. The images of victory leant him strength, he was sure of it, they kindled the righteous anger that was all that stood between him and the flames. Minas Tirith would stand! Had he not taken the Ring to make it so?

And he pushed the voice from the back of his mind, even as it was screaming at him to _take off the Ring, fool! Take off the Ring!_

Something was shining brightly in the darkness of the world beyond the fire and the spinning shadows. If Boromir concentrated, he could make out the figure of a man. On his brow a crown shone with the light of Numenor; but the sword at his side held terror for Boromir, though he knew not why.

A Ringwraith, Boromir wondered? But no, though he was horribly, mortally afraid, he could see that the face was noble and uncorrupted.

The Eye was fighting him no longer, but was instead watching, watching. Here was the source of all his woes, a voice whispered in the darkness of his mind. To fight this Man was to fight all that threatened his city.

With some difficulty, Boromir drew his sword.

The Man stopped still at the noise, and dropped to a crouch, listening, listening. Boromir froze.

'Who is there?' the Man called. 'Frodo, is that you?'

The voice was distorted, almost unrecognisable from this side of the shadow and fire. But Boromir _did _recognise it, though he did not understand. He took a step backwards.

_Strike him now!_ _Strike him while he is blind! _

'Boromir?' the Man called, perhaps recognising the heavy tread of a warrior. This Man was a Ranger, Boromir remembered dimly. His view of the world came not from sight alone, and though his eyes saw Boromir not, still he was aware of him, aware of where he stood and how he breathed.

_It matters not. Prove your true strength, Boromir son of Denethor. _

Boromir gritted his teeth and shook his head. The fire flared around him, but he heeded it not, though the pain of it seared his very soul.

_Strike him down, and Gondor will be yours._

Boromir caught his breath. His sword felt heavy in his hand, heavy and alive.

'I am a man of honour, Aragorn,' he called suddenly. 'And so I will give you fair warning. Stand and fight, or flee now! I have the Ring, and I will lead my people to victory. But first, I will kill you if I can.' Hatred choked him, hatred for this usurper and his quiet superiority.

He embraced the hatred, because to do anything else was to remember that once, they had been shield brothers, had fought together, helped one another, shared a meal, a joke, a moment of silence, or leaned against each other's shoulders around a common fire.

He watched Aragorn's shining face, though the light of it hurt his eyes. There was little of fear in it, just shock, and anguished horror, and a little anger.

But also pity.

A hiss of mingled anger and despair escaped Boromir's lips. Would Aragorn pity him so if he knew that the hobbit lay dead, he wondered?

Without warning, in one lighting-fast motion, the Ranger had drawn his sword and thrust the point towards Boromir's throat.

Boromir blocked, a wild grin breaking across his face, though he knew that Aragorn could not see it.

And the fight was on.

Their swords flashed and rang, locked together at the hilt, held for a moment, and then Aragorn leapt away on the balls of his feet. Boromir stood as silent as he could, wordlessly daring Aragorn to make the next move. But Aragorn would not; he dropped to a half crouch and waited, listening for the noise that would give Boromir away. After a long, tense pause, Boromir lunged forwards, knowing that he would not be able to move in silence, or at least not silence enough to fool Aragorn. The man was a Ranger, a Dunedan of the North, he could follow the sound of steel moving through air, or a slight gasp of breath, even if Boromir could silence his heavy tread. But Boromir was glad of this. He didn't want Aragorn helpless. He wanted a fight to test them both.

Aragorn blocked, danced away, turned, and brought Anduril crashing down towards Boromir's shoulder. Without thinking, Boromir stepped forwards, and the blade whistled harmlessly past.

Aragorn's eyes instinctively scanned the middle distance – he thought that Boromir had stepped away. But Boromir was close enough to reach out and touch him. He held his breath, tried even to silence his heartbeat, and prepared to make the killing thrust upwards into Aragorn's gut. At the last moment, the Ranger jumped away, swinging Anduril down to turn aside Boromir's blade. He had felt the hiss of Boromir's breath against his cheek.

Boromir smiled savagely.

Without warning, Aragorn went for the attack, and their swords met together in a fury of blows and parries, until sparks flew and the sound of steel against steel echoed from the trees. Boromir tried to break away, but this time the Ranger would not let him. As long as sword rang on sword, Aragorn could judge where the next blow was coming from and the fight was almost evenly matched. He kept up his attack; furiously Boromir countered. The pace intensified until both men were fighting at the very limit of their abilities, but neither could land a blow.

_And now it becomes naught but a question of how soon you will tire_, Boromir thought with something approaching triumph. For while desperate concentration exhausted Aragorn's strength, within himself, there was a well of fire which had not yet even been touched.

Aragorn longed to speak with him, he could tell. Longed to fling questions at the empty air and hope that they would be answered. But the fight took all his focus. His eyes darted wildly, and Anduril flashed in the sunlight. To Boromir's eyes it was so bright that he could hardly follow its movements. And when he left himself time to think, he feared it still, with a terror that was almost paralysing.

Just once, Aragorn called out.

'Boromir, this is madness!' he cried suddenly, as though the words had been ripped from him against his will. His voice was filled with such sorrow.

But Boromir had already set his heart against such a plea, and it simply redoubled his anger. Aragorn stepped back, again and again, his sword loose by his side now, only raising it to deflect Boromir's blows. It seemed that at last he had wearied of the fight, not in body but in mind. And yet it was not the despairing clumsiness of mental exhaustion, but more a kind of... insolent boredom. Again and again Boromir tried to provoke him to violence, but the Ranger would not do more than turn his blows aside. In utter frustration and anger, Boromir lashed out his sword to mark Aragorn's face. This time, Aragorn did not even try to deflect the stroke, but instead mirrored it. Both sword tips came away red with blood.

Boromir cried out, a howl not of pain but of anguish. And Aragorn....

... Aragorn fled.

Boromir stared after him. For a moment, something that was almost elation swept over him. He had driven the Ranger away! The Ring had not been taken from him.

And then despair ripped through him. His foe had escaped alive. The Eye was burning him up from the inside with such intensity that he bent double with the pain of it.

_One task I set you. And you have failed it, _whispered that harsh voice at the back of his mind.

And a small part of his mind screamed that the heir of the Steward of Gondor answered to no-one, that he set his own tasks and had _chosen _to let Aragorn go free, because it was the right thing to do, and he had honour yet.

But the rest murmured _Yes, Lord_, and knew that he would agree to anything, anything as long as his city was safe.

He had killed the hobbit, had broken his oath, and now he had attacked his rightful King. Honour was dead. What did it matter now?


	3. From Darkness Into Darkness

**From Darkness Into Darkness**

Without slowing his pace, Aragorn touched a hand to the side of his face, and winced. Blood flowed freely from the shallow gash. Aragorn cursed, and blinked back the threat of tears.

Boromir had fallen.

Where lay the fatal weakness, Aragorn wondered? Was it some flaw in the other Man's soul? Or was it the nature of _all _Men to give in to the corruption of power? Boromir had been so fair, and so proud; strong of will and great of heart. And now... what was he?

And what had kept Aragorn himself from such a fate? Some inner strength, some fire that burned brighter and purer within him than the other Man? Or simply a matter of circumstance, of chance? He had felt the Ring's call, heard its whispered promises; indeed, had spent much of his waking hours guarding his heart against them.

But had he come across Frodo in that moment when Boromir had; alone, defenceless, and the Ring within his grasp... would he have been able to resist?

He wanted to believe that he would, but the uncertainty sickened his heart.

And where was Frodo now? He would not have given up the Ring without a fight. Aragorn bowed his head and tried not to think the worst.

Though it was Frodo he feared for, his heart kept turning back to Boromir. How could so noble a Man have been so utterly lost? Aragorn had failed him. He had known that Boromir's heart was tortured by the Ring's whispered promises, but he had been unable to protect him, for so too had his own heart been. Isildur's heir might not have been Isildur himself, but he was no more than a Man, and always tortured by the thought that Isildur's fate might one day become his own.

He had thought that the Ring's test was for him and him alone. By right of blood, he could have made claim to the wicked thing, could have tried to bend it to his will, for Isildur's fate was his birthright. And he fought against it, as was his destiny and his duty, to atone for the mistakes of his forefathers. Each day of the quest, he had fought against it, and each day he had won. And he had thought that that would be enough to redeem the race of Men, to undo the evil that Isildur had begun all those years ago.

But the weakness of Men was not confined to the line of Elendil alone.

The burden of the Ring was not Boromir's by bloodright or by destiny, but by mere unhappy chance. And neither destiny nor duty had bid him fight it, but he had all the same, had fought alongside Aragorn to resist the fate of Isildur and redeem the race of Man. Each day of the quest, he had fought it, and each day he had won... until today.

Temptation had proved too strong. Boromir had fallen.

And Frodo? Aragorn cursed, and shook his head. The redemption of Man was all very well, but he had to find Frodo. He dashed away the tears that he had scarcely noticed falling, and picked up his pace.

Upon the throne of Amon Hen, Sam sat, staring unseeing into the distance. The stone seat was great enough to dwarf the frame of a grown man; Sam looked little more than a lost child.

He was sobbing

Aragorn's heart froze.

'Is he so gravely hurt, then?' he called to Sam. The hobbit gave a small start at the sound of his voice, and then bowed his head.

'Gravely indeed,' he choked out eventually. 'He is dead.' And he could say no more.

Horror overwhelmed Aragorn. And yet even now he could not believe that Boromir would have done such a thing. He cast his eyes around for Frodo, expecting any moment to see him take off the Ring and flicker back into plain sight.

But Frodo did not have the Ring. Boromir did. Aragorn had seen proof enough of that.

His eyes lighted finally on the crumpled figure slumped against the rocky base of the stone seat. Hopelessly, Sam rested a protective hand on the dark, curly head.

Aragorn crossed to them and knelt by Frodo's side. There was no blood; he had expected bloodshed and violence. But only one mark marred Frodo's sleeping form, and that was the livid bruise around his throat. His eyes were open, and lifeless, and filled with an expression that was mingled fear and regret and relief.

No blood. Not a single cut upon him. And yet Boromir was a swordsman. This choking off of life with bare hands and uncontrolled rage did not seem as if it could possibly be the deed of the warrior that Aragorn knew and respected. It sickened him.

He closed his eyes and steeled himself.

The orcs and trolls of Moria had been unable to fell Frodo. Even the deathly strike of a Morgul blade had not doomed him, though it had taken all Elrond's healing to call him back from that darkness.

How then could nothing more than the hands of a Man have taken his life?

Gently, Aragorn took the hobbit's shoulders and shook them, calling his name, calling so as to bring him back to himself if there were any life in him, commanding the hobbit to respond with the power of the Kings of Numenor; and then, though it was clearly hopeless, begging and pleading with him, tears of anguish starting up in his eyes.

Sam watched him wearily. There had been a momentary flicker of suppressed hope in his eyes, but it had quickly dimmed.

Frodo was dead.

Finally, when the last of his strength was spent, Aragorn conceded defeat and turned his attention to the living, gathering the weeping Sam up in his arms and rocking him against his chest.

'I am sorry. I am truly sorry,' he whispered. Sam's tears were warm and wet in the crook of his neck, but his own had frozen on his face and would fall no more. There was no more use for tears. Tears were for healing, but this time the grief ran too deep, and hope was gone.

'The Ring's gone,' Sam said eventually, when he could speak again.

'I know,' Aragorn said softly, trying to keep the despair out of his voice.

'It was Boromir, wasn't it?' Sam said fiercely. 'No orcs did this.' Aragorn shook his head.

'No orcs indeed. This was Boromir's doing.'

Sam bowed his head once more and wept.

'But I knew not to trust him, Strider!' he cried. 'I said to myself, it's the Ring he's after, Samwise Gamgee, and no mistake about it. I _knew_! And still I couldn't protect Frodo.'

'I was a fool to trust in the strength of Men to protect him,' Aragorn said, almost to himself. 'In the end, it was not the Enemy he had to fear.'

'The Enemy!' Sam cried, sitting up bolt upright. 'I had almost forgotten!' He looked about him as though waking up from a deep sleep. 'The Ring must still be destroyed, or all Frodo's suffering has been in vain!' he said. 'Oh Strider, don't you see? The quest can't fail now!'

At Sam's words, Aragorn felt a new strength growing within him. He closed his eyes and forced air back into his lungs.

'You give me such hope, little one,' he said quietly. Sam looked away.

'Hope? I've precious little of that, Strider,' he said. 'All I hoped for was to see Mister Frodo safely back in Bag End, and now he is...' Sam choked on the word and could not go on. 'Well. Let's just say hope is lost to me now,' he managed in a thick voice. 'But... this was always a hopeless quest, if you get my meaning. From darkness into darkness, with no clear idea of the way. Mister Frodo said that, or something very similar.' Sam squared his shoulders. 'I can carry on without hope,' he said fiercely. 'To the very end.'

'To the very end,' Aragorn echoed. He thought about all that was waiting for him still if, even now, the quest should succeed. He thought about Arwen waiting for him in Rivendell, and the White Tower welcoming him home, and the Sword that was Broken re-forged at his belt, and he realised with a jolt that he would _never _know what it was to be as utterly without hope as Sam was in that moment.

_Why did he not kill me? _Aragorn thought suddenly. _Why did he not pursue me? Why did he let me go? _He had no answer save the one he did not dare hope... that Boromir fought the Ring's corruption still, that it had not taken him completely.

_The Nine... the Nine have not found him. So it is hidden from Sauron yet, though I understand not how. Perhaps then there is hope for him. Perhaps there is hope for us all. _The hope was so slender that he dared not voice it out loud. But hope was kindled in his own heart, at least, now. He could follow this through to the very end. Out of hope for Arwen, for Anduril, for Minas Tirith, and maybe, just maybe, for Boromir too.

'But the end will come sooner rather than later if we don't find Boromir,' Sam was saying. 'If he has the Ring... he won't take it to Sauron, will he?'

Aragorn shook his head.

'No, he wants it for himself. Sauron will try to wrest it from him, but Boromir will not willingly part with it.'

'Then we must go after him,' Sam said, and his face was dark.

'He has done a great evil, Sam,' Aragorn said gently. 'But if you have it within your heart, be merciful. The Ring is both powerful and evil.'

'Do you think I do not know that?' Sam said angrily. 'I pity Boromir, don't you think that I don't! But only as you might pity a poisonous spider, dying trapped in its own web. You can pity it still, even though the world is better off without it, and even though its death is of its own devising. But that does not mean that you would save it, had you the chance.'

_Not a spider, _Aragorn thought sadly. _A moth, and the candle-flame will singe your wings whether I would save you or no. _But he said nothing.


	4. The Last Hope

**The Last Hope**

Boromir stopped on the banks of the Anduin and gazed past Rauros falls at the long road home. The fire in his mind burned bright and fierce, and once again he fought against it. It sought now to destroy him, to consume him. It had tried to bend him to its will, and it had failed. Now it tried to weaken him.

And it was working. He was so wracked with pain that he could scarcely think. If he could only _use_ the fire that burned within him before it consumed him utterly, then the pain would be worth it. He could not control it, this he knew, for he was not a fool. It was too strong for him, and it burned. But if only he could turn that destructive power outwards, he would have the victory he needed.

Briefly, his gaze turned eastward and he looked out over the Emyn Muil. Pain surged within him, and he almost cried out. His vision dimmed, and he tasted blood.

He looked away, trying to get a hold on himself once more. Not yet. He could not yet face up to the Eye.

He would take it to Minas Tirith. Perhaps from within his own stronghold he would have the strength to face down his enemy. He turned towards Rauros and his homeward road once more.

He knew not how long he had stood looking over the falls when, dimly, he began to be aware of the sounds of battle – and high, clear hobbit voices calling out for aid. At first, he thought they might be only the product of his tortured mind, but the harsh cries of orcish voices were real enough, and the hobbit cries grew desperate.

Boromir shuddered. Frodo had not cried out as he had choked out his life with Boromir's heavy hands around his throat.

_Oath breaker. You were sworn to protect them._

Boromir groaned aloud, burying his face in his hands. Blue eyes glittered accusingly in the darkness of his mind, and he knew not whether they belonged to Frodo or Sam; Gandalf or Galadriel; Faramir or himself. And yet somewhere deep in his heart he knew that they spoke the truth.

But the fire burned fierce.

_Minas Tirith calls. Protect your people. Leave the little ones to their fate. _

Boromir hardened his heart, and turned south towards Gondor. Before he had gone more than a few steps, the fire had receded, the pain was lessened.

But he could not feel relief.

_Minas Tirith bought with the blood of innocents is the same as Minas Tirith fallen. You are playing into his hands, son of Denethor._

He knew not where the voice had come from, but it stopped him dead. Frodo's face flashed before his eyes, and then Merry and Pippin cut to pieces on orcish blades.

_What have you become, son of Denethor? You are an oath-breaker, a murderer. Are you also a coward?_

Boromir felt his skin crawl. He cursed, and began to run, westwards this time, towards the shouting. Pain ripped through him, almost enough to stop him in his tracks, but he welcomed the pain, it showed him that he fought against the Enemy yet.

He burst into the clearing, sword already drawn. His vision was dimmed, he could barely take in the scene at all, but he thought that Pippin lay unconscious. Merry he could not see, but all through the clearing swarmed the orcs, great and terrible.

Both halves of his severed mind understood the sudden rush of bloodlust that swept over him like a wave of nausea. The sword was naked in his hand, and now it burned. He let go of all thought and swept through the clearing in fire and blood. There was no conscious thought; no fear; and no pain. Nothing but anger and hatred; and a sickening pleasure in the blood he spilled and the anguished cries of his enemies.

Always, always before he had held himself back from this. It was dangerous – he had no care for himself, no thought at all, no strategy, nothing but sheer physical strength and the might of rage. And always before there had been the fear that he would never come back from it, the fear that hurting and killing were... too attractive.

Now... he was lost anyway. He let himself go. And knew no more.

Merry's short sword was drawn, and black with orcish blood. He ducked and weaved between the great heavy bodies. It was no use trying to stand his ground. They were bigger than him and there were too many of them and they swarmed from all directions. He couldn't see Pippin. He ducked behind a tree, stabbing above his head into the groin of the orc that was about to decapitate him. His sword was wrenched from his grip; off balance, he stumbled and fell. He rolled, crawled away on his elbows, lay still. All around him was chaos. He froze, hoping to be overlooked.

Somewhere out of his line of sight, Pippin was screaming. Merry knew that there was nothing he could do. Even had he not lost his sword, just fighting his way across the clearing to Pippin's side would have been more than he was capable of. He buried his face leafy earth, bit his lip, tried to keep from moving. His only hope of survival was to keep still and unnoticed. There was nothing more he could do.

But then Pippin's scream was cut off short, and Merry knew that he could bear it no longer. He dragged himself to his feet. There was nothing he could do, he was powerless, hopelessly outnumbered by enemies twice his size, and swordless. But he ducked and weaved between the heavy bodies nonetheless, trying to find his friend.

'Strider! Strider!' he cried out, his voice carrying shrilly across the noise and chaos. 'Legolas! Boromir! Help!'

Over at the far side of the clearing there was a cry that might have been rage or triumph or despair. For a moment, he thought it was Boromir's voice, and hope flared in his heart. But though he darted this way and that about the clearing, dodging cruel blows from heavy iron swords as he ran, he could not catch sight of Boromir. Despair overtook him once more. It was all he could do to remain on his feet.

But all of a sudden, the orcs were fleeing. He could not understand it. He could hear swords clashing, erratically, and harsh, guttural cries of terror. Bodies were beginning to pile up around the clearing. And now and then, he thought he heard snatches of wild laughter and muttered words in a familiar accent, but always just beyond his sight. He snatched up an impossibly heavy and unwieldy sword from a lifeless orc, and darted and ran about the clearing, hither and thither amongst the falling bodies, calling Boromir's name. He did not understand.

Most of the orcs had drawn back now. In the center of the clearing, three of the tallest, ugliest, and evilest-looking of the lot were fighting ferociously with the empty air. Merry frowned in confusion, backing away with growing fear. The savagery of the orcs was growing, and the leaves and mud underfoot were trampled with blood both orcish black and human red. Merry could hear the guttural growling of the beasts, but also the desperate hitching breaths of a man at his last gasp.

Boromir fought there, unseen. Merry was beginning to grow sure of it.

How it was possible, he knew not. And he did not want to guess. But he dared hope, now. He trusted Boromir. Boromir would drive the orcs away. Boromir would save Pippin.

And then there came an anguished cry which cut Merry's heart, and suddenly Boromir was on his knees amongst the bloodstained leaves, clutching his swordarm to his chest. Merry started forwards with a yell, as Boromir crumpled forwards, a terrible, choked scream escaping him.

'Leave him!' one of the orcs growled. 'The Halflings! They made for the trees. Now, you lazy maggots!'

And the orcs were tramping across the clearing once again, and all was chaos. Merry tried to crawl unnoticed to Boromir's side, hacking out at feet and ankles whenever he had to, or freezing motionless against the earthy ground. By the time he reached Boromir, he had lost all sense of time. He felt as though he might have been crawling for hours. He touched the Man's shoulder, but Boromir flinched away from him. Before Merry could react, the flat of a heavy blade had caught his shoulder a glancing blow, and he cried out, cowering to the floor.

Something soft and still faintly warm touched his cheek. Without knowing what it was, Merry instinctively recoiled. He reached out a trembling hand and touched... flesh. Fingertips. Broken nails and sword calluses.

Before Merry had had a chance to take in what this meant, a flash of gold had caught his eye, and his heart stopped. Without further thought, and with the sole purpose of protecting it from the orcs who would surely otherwise claim it for their own, Merry reached out again.

It was Boromir's forearm, severed. And the Ring gleamed dully on his fourth finger. Merry bit back a wave of nausea and cradled it to his chest. He cowered once more against the earthy floor, knowing that something terrible and incomprehensible must have just happened. The world stood still around him. Harsh whispered words of black speech washed over him. Tears leaked out of his eyes and spilled down his cheeks though he could not have said why.

Boromir was whimpering, softly but uncontrollably. It sounded so unlike him that Merry began to shake with fear. Still he cradled the... the _thing_ to him, though blood soaked his front.

Not more than a few seconds had passed. Merry's shoulder ached terribly, and he still could not see Pippin, and he felt sick and cold, and any second now these great, fierce, terrible orcs would stop overlooking him and then it would all be over, not just for him, but for all Middle Earth, for he held the One Ring clutched against his blood-stained chest. He trembled uncontrollably at this thought. He did not know what to do. If he moved, he would be seen. He could not fight his way free. He dared not hope that his luck would hold out and he would remain unnoticed until the orcs had passed.

_Put on the Ring, and they will overlook you, _whispered a rash voice at the back of his head. Merry gritted his teeth and shook his head. He knew from Frodo's mishaps in Bree and on Weathertop that to put the Ring on now would be fatal.

And suddenly an idea came from him. With shaking hands, he ripped the horn of Gondor from Boromir's belt. Boromir cried out, presumably at the pain of being touched, though it felt to Merry as though he knew that he had been bereft. _I will return it, if I can, _he promised silently. Several orcs had started at the cry and turned to see, to gloat at the Man's agony, perhaps, or to check that he wasn't rising to his feet once again. Hurriedly, Merry pressed the horn to his lips and blew. At first his mouth was too dry to make a sound. Desperately, he wetted his lips – the orcs were closing in – and this time, the horn sounded. The horn-call of Buckland came naturally to his lips, but on this great horn of Gondor, he could not control the pitch, and so he simply sustained a single, clear, desperate note until all the breath was gone from his body and grey streaks swirled across his vision. He dragged in another painful breath and set the horn to his lips once more.

_Aragorn! Legolas! Gimli! _he called desperately, silently. And the note of the horn rang out fierce and proud. But the orcs closed in around him.


	5. The Price of Mercy

**The Price of Mercy**

Halfway up the path to Amon Hen, Legolas stopped in his tracks, and Gimli almost ran into him.

'Why do you stop, Legolas?' the dwarf growled impatiently.

'I see Aragorn and Sam on the path a little ahead of us. They are walking towards us,' Legolas told him.

'But is _Frodo_ with them?' Gimli asked. Mutely, Legolas shook his head. Gimli frowned. 'That is ill news,' he said.

'Yes,' was Legolas' terse reply. He hesitated a moment, and then called out Aragorn's name, his voice echoing out across the hill. There was a long silence. Gimli tapped the foot of his axe-shaft anxiously against the leafy ground.

Then, faint on the still air, Legolas heard the reply.

'I am coming, friend.' Aragorn spoke Elvish, but even so, the rough edge to his voice worried Legolas.

'What _is _it?' Gimli asked.

'Nothing,' Legolas said, and then: 'In truth, I do not know. A dark cloud passes over my heart, though I know not why. Aragorn is weary, he stumbles as he walks; and Sam... I do not know. But I feel that some great sorrow has come to pass.'

Gimli frowned harder.

'You elves and your _feelings_,' he said with an exasperated shrug, but there was both affection and worry in his voice.

At that moment, loud on the still air, came a sound that made both elf and dwarf start. The horn of Gondor called, clear, but faint and desperate. Without looking at each other, without looking back, Legolas and Gimli turned tail and sprinted back down the path, Gimli tightening his grip on his axe, Legolas nocking an arrow to his bow. A little way down the path, Aragorn caught up with them, his sword already drawn. As he overtook them, feet pounding on the rocky ground, Legolas noticed the cut on his face, still trickling blood. He said nothing, but his face creased into a frown and he quickened his pace. Gimli looked grim.

The three companions broke into the clearing in time to see Merry lifted up and slung across the shoulders of a fearsome looking orc. The shards of Boromir's horn lay nearby, and Merry's face bore a bloody gash across the mouth and chin. He did not cry out, but struggled violent against his captor, all the while clutching something against his chest.

Aragorn sprang forward. Anduril came crashing down upon the orc's neck, and it fell instantly, trapping Merry beneath a lifeless arm. Aragorn struggled to pull the orc aside, while Legolas and Gimli swept through the clearing driving the remaining orcs before them. The great bow sang and the heavy axe fell again and again until not one living orc remained upon the hillside. Then Gimli would have set out in pursuit of those which had fled, but Legolas bade him return to their injured comrades to see if there was aught that could be done and to take counsel with Aragorn as to what their course of action should be.

Merry was sitting with his back to a tree and his eyes closed, while Aragorn bent over Boromir's motionless body. When Legolas and Gimli approached, Merry started and looked around with wary eyes, but Aragorn did not immediately look up. Legolas flung the Man an anxious glance and then went to kneel by Merry's side.

'Are you much hurt, master hobbit?' he asked gently. Merry answered slowly and with great difficulty, for the injury to his face made speech painful.

'Aragorn says that if I can speak at all, then it cannot be as bad as it looks,' he said grimly, and then spat blood. 'But I am heartsick and mortally weary,' he managed in a very small voice, and closed his eyes.

'Rest now, then,' Gimli said kindly. 'You are safe.' Merry shook his head, but could not speak. Legolas brushed his curly hair back from his face and rested a cool hand on his forehead.

'Much evil has come to pass, this I know,' he said softly. 'But for now, you are safe, Merry. This I know also. You can rest now. We will protect you.' His voice was soothing and calm, though Gimli thought he heard the strain of anxiety in it. But Merry was reassured and comforted, and finally lapsed into sleep.

'Aragorn?' Legolas said after a long moment. And finally Aragorn looked up. He looked pale and drawn and deathly tired, and he shook his head.

'Frodo is dead,' he said, and his voice was breaking. 'Frodo is dead, and Boromir is injured perhaps unto death, and Pippin has been taken, and Merry is hurt, and the Ring... the Ring...' He buried his face in his hands and could not continue.

'Not taken?' Gimli asked, aghast. Legolas shook his head.

'No. It is here. Can you not feel it?' His eyes narrowed. 'Do you have it, Aragorn? Or does Boromir?' Aragorn shook his head.

'Boromir had it, and it betrayed him. But Merry took it before the Enemy could.'

'Durin's beard,' Gimli swore. Legolas buried his face in his hands.

'What will we do now, Aragorn?' Gimli asked after a long moment. Aragorn shook his head.

'I know not,' he said with a small shrug, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He drew a deep breath. 'But if I am to do aught for Boromir, I must work quickly,' he added decisively.

'It was at his hand that Frodo died,' Legolas said suddenly. Gimli frowned, and his fists clenched.

'Yes,' was all that Aragorn could reply. 'And yet still I would save him, Legolas,' he added fiercely. 'The Ring was too powerful for him. But he is not an evil man. Any of us might have succumbed so.'

'But we did not,' Gimli said simply. Aragorn sighed.

'Boromir fought the Ring! Even under its influence, he still sought to protect Merry and Pippin. Does that mean nothing to you?'

'Something, perhaps,' Gimli growled. 'But if he _murdered_ Frodo, Aragorn... surely that condemns him?' Aragorn shook his head fiercely.

'Frodo died because of the Ring,' he insisted.

'At Boromir's hand,' Legolas said gently.

'Yes. I do not seek to deny that,' Aragorn said desperately. 'And _still_ I would save him if I could. I would see him redeem himself, if he is able. I would give him that chance. For mercy is one of the things that sets us apart from those we fight, and pity is another, and so too is the potential for redemption. Do you not see that?'

'I see it,' Legolas said softly. 'I _do_ see it. But hope your trust in him is not misplaced.'

'So do I,' Aragorn muttered wryly. 'Gimli, can you get a fire going? Legolas, my friend, keep your bow-stRing taut and be alert.'

'Aye, Aragorn,' said Gimli. Legolas gave no reply, but his hand went to his bow. Aragorn squared his shoulders and bent once more over Boromir.

The Man had retreated into a deep unconsciousness. His breathing was strong and steady, and he gave no indication of being able to feel pain, for which Aragorn was truly thankful. Gently, he re-examined the injured arm. It was not the clean wound of a sharp blade. The remaining bone was shattered, the flesh ripped and torn. Left like this, Aragorn knew it would never heal. Though he had already bound Boromir's arm fast, it was not enough to staunch the blood flow. And if the blood was not checked, Boromir would surely die. Already, he had lost too much, and his face was pale, his pulse fast and uneven.

Aragorn touched his shoulder. Boromir did not stir.

'The fire, Gimli!' Aragorn growled without looking up.

'It's alight, friend,' Gimli said softly.

'Get it hot, very hot, and smokeless,' Aragorn said. 'Then take Anduril and place her blade in the flames.'

Gimli drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. Legolas looked up.

'Take my knife instead, Aragorn,' he said. 'It is sharper and less unwieldy, and your hand will be steadier. Also, it would be ill luck indeed if Anduril were damaged in the flames.'

'If I had need of a knife I could use my own,' Aragorn said. 'But the hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and the sword of kings will do this job best.' Legolas frowned, but nodded. They both knew that neither sword nor knife would do this task easily, but they had no other choice. Gimli took the sword and plunged it into the fire.

'Where is Merry? I would that he did not have to see this,' Aragorn said, and his face was pale.

'He sleeps,' Gimli said. 'With luck, he also will not wake,' he said grimly, and Aragorn closed his eyes. Should Boromir wake, the task would become nigh on impossible.

'Legolas, Gimli, you must help me hold him down,' Aragorn said. 'Legolas, take his shoulders. Gimli, hold his arm out, thus.' Boromir whimpered as they moved him, and Aragorn gritted his teeth.

'Have you aught that will deaden pain?' Gimli asked.

'Precious little, and I would save it,' Aragorn said.

'The shock will kill him.' Aragorn shook his head.

'If he cannot withstand this, then he will die whether I deaden the pain or no. I would save what healing herbs I have.'

'You have done this before, friend?' Legolas asked suddenly in quiet Elvish. Despite himself, Aragorn smiled grimly.

'Aye, of course. And under worse circumstances too.'

'And did the patient survive?' Legolas could not help but ask. Aragorn's eyes darkened.

'Though by Elvish standards, I could not be considered an experienced healer, I have tended many casualties over the years. Some survived. Some did not.' He looked away, and laid a hand on Boromir's forehead. 'Legolas, I would borrow one of your knives after all,' he added in Common Speech. 'I may need its heat to stem the blood flow when I have done.' Wordlessly, Legolas thrust a slender blade into the fire.

'Hold him fast,' Aragorn muttered. 'Try not to let him move.' He reached for Anduril's hilt, took the sword in both hands, raised it high. Legolas and Gimli braced themselves.

Boromir screamed, his eyes flashing open but unseeing. Legolas and Gimli struggled to hold him steady. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. Aragorn worked fast. Anduril was sharp enough to cleave bone with a single blow, but now he turned to Legolas' knife, severing skin and tendons, burning the wounds sealed. Boromir's voice gave out and the screams faded into silence, but still he struggled against Legolas' and Gimli's hands.

'Hold him steady!' Aragorn growled through gritted teeth.

'...trying!' Gimli growled in reply.

Suddenly another pair of hands was holding Boromir's head. Merry's strength was not enough to hold Boromir down, but somehow his small, gentle hands seemed to calm the Man. Merry's eyes darted with fear, and his voice shook, but he whispered small words of comfort. Whether Boromir could hear them none could tell, because soon after that he passed back into unconsciousness.

At last, it was all over. Aragorn did not bind the wound, but strapped Boromir's arm to his chest so that he would not be able to move it. No one spoke. Legolas took his knife out of Aragorn's hand, cleaned it, and sheathed it. Then, seeing as Aragorn still had not moved, he went through the same process with Anduril. Gimli stood and headed towards the river, and after a moment, Legolas followed him.

Fighting bitter exhaustion, Aragorn turned and began to hunt through his pack. His store of healing herbs he had scarcely used since setting off from Rivendell. His stock of Athelas was somewhat diminished and none too fresh, and there was little hope of finding more, but he hoped what he had would do. Other herbs he had in far greater quantities; he sorted through the familiar little scented packets, setting aside gentle herbs of cleansing and the promotion of healing. Also, separately, he took the darker herbs of sleep and forgetfulness; bitter, dangerous herbs that would numb pain, slow blood and dull the mind. Legolas returned with water, placed it over the fire to boil. Aragorn acknowledged the unasked for help with a silent nod, and continued his work. Some of the herbs he set to steep in the boiling water, others he made into a thick ointment. Finally, knowing that it might wake Boromir but secretly longing for the relief it would also bring to himself and his other companions, he breathed on a little of the Athelas, and crushed it between his hands.

All day, Aragorn had felt as though the kings of Numenor had been watching over his shoulders, protecting him perhaps, but mostly just intimidating him. They had not lent him the strength he had needed to save Frodo, but now, with the sword of kings at his belt and the kingsfoil between his hands, Aragorn breathed deeply and felt their blood stir in his veins. He knelt once more and touched Boromir's forehead, reaching deep within himself, reaching back to those wonderful, powerful, elusive, intimidating ancestors, reaching out to Boromir. The Man stirred, groaned, and then quieted under Aragorn's hands. Without letting him wake, Aragorn led him from the dark and fear of unconsciousness to the quiet calm of a deep, healing sleep. They breathed together, strong and slow and steady, as Aragon worked the healing herbs gently over injured flesh. Boromir did not even flinch. The pain-draught Aragorn set aside. As yet, Boromir did not need it. Athelas and the strength of Aragorn's will were enough to let him sleep calm.

'The hands of a healer indeed,' Gimli said.

Aragorn looked up, forced a smile.

'I said that I would save him if I could,' he whispered. He made as if to stand, but a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he slumped forwards, burying his face in his hands, shaking with exhaustion.

In two strides, Legolas was by his side.

'You are a fool,' the Elf said, his hands steadying on Aragorn's shoulders, his voice showing neither anxiety nor concern, his eyes betraying both. Aragorn shook his head.

'I do only what must be done,' he said. Legolas shook his head.

'Aragorn, you must think to the task in hand. Gondor needs her King. And the Ring must be destroyed. Or else all our struggles have been in vain.'

Something in the words made Aragorn's breath catch in his throat.

'... where is Sam?' he said slowly. The elf and the dwarf stared back at him blankly, but Merry looked up in concern.

'He was with you, Strider,' he said, and his voice was hoarse with weeping.

Aragorn sprang to his feet, his exhaustion replaced by cold fear. He paced the clearing, searching the earth for signs. Small footprints matched his to very edge of the battle-marred earth... and then disappeared.

'Ah, I am a thrice cursed fool!' Aragorn cried. 'He _was_ with, he came here at my side. But I paid him no mind, and now he is gone.' He buried his face in his hands, and for a moment, the others feared that he would weep. Gimli hefted his axe viciously into the corpse of a nearby orc, the closest thing to a legitimate target on which to vent his rage and sorrow.

'Dead, then,' Legolas said dully. 'Or taken.' The calmness of his tone and plainness of his words belied an expression in his eyes that Aragorn might almost have taken for despair, if it wasn't for the fact that he had always thought Legolas incapable of it. Always, where others had found despair, the elf had managed to find cause for hope, for laughter, for smiles and for song.

'Not dead,' Aragorn said thickly. 'We would have seen a body.' He could not look up. 'They must have wanted him alive.' Legolas and Gimli both looked sickened, but Merry looked up in hope.

'Pippin,' he said, in a very small voice. 'Is he... I mean...'

'I have seen no evidence that he is dead,' Aragorn said gently. Merry closed his eyes in relief. The other three exchanged glances, knowing full well that suffering of the Enemy's devising went far beyond death on a battlefield. They feared that Merry's relief was misplaced, and that death might have been the kinder alternative. Aragorn remembered his brother's tales of the cruelty of orcs, remembered the fate of Celebrian, and gritted his teeth.

'What are we to do?' Gimli asked. But none knew the answer.


End file.
